


Heavy as a Crown

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Childhood, Childhood Friends, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Royal Upbringing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Noctis had expected his crown to be heavy when he received it.





	Heavy as a Crown

Noctis had always expected the crown to be heavy. He had been prepared for it to be heavy; convinced that the slip of silver fashioned into a delicate horn, a beastly curl made in a quicksilver imitation of an Astral’s own ornamentation, was sturdier and heavier than it looked. He had heard about its weight whispered through the Citadel halls, muttered in sayings and proverbs, tutting through the closest guards and friends of the King with each new complaint of age from the King himself. 

Noctis thought it was perfectly reasonable to steel himself when he was first crowned. At ten, declared the heir to the Lucian throne, Noctis tried to muster up all his strength not to flinch or falter when his father presented him with the simple little ashen box. He had been told that it was important, that it was new and shining, and made just for him. Hidden away in an unremarkable little box engraved with the sigil of Insomnia. 

He tried not to hunch when the silver slipped over his ear and through his hair. 

He tried not to blink in shock when his father chuckled and fixed his hair around the ornament. “It’s always cold at first.”

It wasn’t heavy at all. But he watched his father’s smile fade as the portrait artist arrived and asked them to take their positions. 

Noctis wanted to fiddle with his little crown, set to mirror his King’s own regal image. He wanted to run his hands over the curve and curl of the metal, and examine the designs worked into it. But instead he sat still, his father’s hand at his shoulder as the King rested against the sturdy chair as the session dragged on. There were small movements here and there, little words of encouragement from the artist between them, glancing smiles from his father when the artist wasn’t looking. There were short breaks, when the Shield brought in treats and snacks and the artist cleaned his brushes and let them peek at the work. 

It wasn’t until much later— after the session, when he was allowed to stretch again and the little crown was tucked back away— that he found the words to voice his confusion to Ignis. He held the little ashen box in his hands, settled in the centre of his bed, with his toys from earlier overtaking the books his friend had laid out for study. 

He had cleared a little space for him and Ignis in the mess; a space to set out the box and carefully open it like it was a treasure. 

“It’s amazing,” Ignis muttered, then paused and corrected himself; “beautiful, I mean.”

And Noctis nodded his agreement when he finally managed to bring himself to touch the cool metal, smudging the perfect shine as he examined it. “I thought it would be heavier.” 

“But it’s so small.”

“They say Dad’s crown is heavy.”

“Not like that,” Noctis knew that if anyone knew the truth of things, it would be Ignis. The older boy understood more, knew more, and spent his time with more advanced lessons; “it’s a metaphor, highness.”

“A metaphor?”

“Yeah. Like a saying.” Ignis lifted the little crown himself, studying it as if it was some new puzzle or piece of art. “They just mean all the… responsibility is what’s heavy.”

Noctis frowned as he thought about it. About the long hours his father is away or busy. About the tired smiles and tired words as he apologises for being busy or missing meals, or missing ‘appointments’. For needing to schedule those same appointments. He pulled the crown back away from Ignis and shut it away in its box. A slip of light silver, curled into the pale imitation of the King’s, tucked away into an unremarkable box that he didn’t want to give more attention than necessary. 

“I’ll help you, you know,” Ignis said, once the box was set aside onto a high shelf. A problem for another day.

“I know,” Noctis smiled, collecting a notebook and the first case of pencils he could find— all bright colours and not quite suited for the task he wanted to set them to. “But let’s help Dad now.”


End file.
